The Dementor Effect
by Noktalune
Summary: Draco Malfoy...Foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach. Who has an overactive imagination. Now Draco's only hopes are trusted to an apathetic faculty and the determination of enemies...And a story of how love conquers all!duh
1. Hero Complex

Title: The Dementor Effect

Chapter: 1- Hero Complex

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The "Dementor Affect" is completely fictional, and the idea belongs to me, the writer.

* * *

Christmas send-off was something Draco deigned to watch every year at Hogwarts. You could always tell who was who in the Hogwarts world when you noticed who boarded the trains. It didn't matter if they were pureblooded, muggle born, or just plain wizard. The people who got on the trains were going home. They were going to a place were fires were bright and merry and plates of Christmas baking were left on every available surface. They would get off the train in London and be immediately pulled into warm, loving embraces. Their parents would smile and they would smile back, maybe even shed a happy tear or two. The people who didn't get on the train…Those were the people that you had to watch. The ones where Christmas was a present and a note and maybe an "I'm sorry you can't come this year, dear!" But mostly, it was the cold ones. The ones like him. Well, there were exceptions. Exceptions like the Weasel, who stayed, "Because it was crowded at home," but everyone knew that it was really because he wouldn't leave Potter alone.

Draco smirked, staring out at the crowded tracks were friends hugged, laughed and said their see-you-laters. Giving last minute gifts with tags that read, "Don't open until x-mas!" With little smiley faces drawn beneath. Draco thought about when he was a first-year, and about how he'd stumbled onto the send-off one icy December morning. He'd been jealous of them, the ones who went home. The ones with roaring fires. He even used daydream, sometimes, about what it might be like if he was invited home. Draco struggled to continue smirking. Pathetic, really, how many times he'd run over the scenario in his mind, honing every detail until it was like one of those dreadful muggle things that ran over and over without skipping a beat. He never went over that daydream anymore, of course. Draco looked at his shoes.

The first part was when the family owl landed in the Great Hall, dropping a letter written on white paper instead of black…

The note was sweet and written from his mother, but she signed it, "Love Mum and Dad." All his friends would get letters just like his, but it was apparent to anyone that his parents loved him best. All of the Slytherins would go home that year. On that icy December morning the entire house would wake to a wonderland of untouched snow that was beautiful instead of familiar. They'd all tramp down to the train tracks together, laughing and joking about the winter holiday and throwing presents at one another with little inscriptions on the cards. Draco would always have more smiley faces on his that anyone. He'd get the tightest hugs and the most heart-felt smiles, and, when he got the train, no one would look up at him with fear or hate clouding their expressions. Everyone had an open seat for him, even Potter, who was going to the Weasley's for vacation. Hermione would smile at him and he'd compliment her on her scores. Ron would throw an arm around his shoulders and tell him about a joke his older brothers had pulled.

When the train rolled into 9 ¾, no one would want to get off the train, but get off they would, falling into the open arms of their parents. Both of his parents would be standing there, and they'd hug him at the same time. Father wouldn't be wearing his gloves or caring his cane and mother would smile and even cry a little. His father would hear his finals' scores and tell him how proud he was. The house elves would all be glad to see him, and he'd have Christmas cards for each. The dining room would have a smaller table where they'd sit near the big fireplace that roared to life with flame. Oh that flame, an embodiment of the love that would feel tangible in the air around the three. Christmas morning would come, and the first present would be his. His mother would tell him she made it when he asked how much it cost, even though they both knew her answer. He'd shuck off his bathrobe and wear the bright blue sweater with pride, tracing the gray "D" on the front with loving fingers. His mother would hug him and say he must have too many of them now, and he would tell her that he'd never have too many. And when he had to get back on the train, when he had to go away again, his mother would cry with sadness and his father would hug him and tell him how much he'd be missed.

Every Slytherin would get on the train wearing their sweaters, laughing with each other and teasing. He'd listen to Weasley rant about his holiday and laugh when Potter joked about his money. Hermione would scold him for not doing his homework and he'd tease her right back about her bushy hair. She wouldn't mind at all.

Draco didn't mean to smile, it just kind of happened. It slowly morphed from the smirk and grew until his imagined contentment was evident. Pale fingers traced out a shape on his chest, and still Draco didn't notice his own movements, so trapped was he in his imagination. He was completely caught up within his notion of perfection. He didn't even notice his audience.

&

"What the hell is he doing?" Ron hissed. Malfoy was acting very suspicious indeed, and Ron was positive that he was up to something. Even after seven years, he didn't trust the git any farther than he could throw him. Ron grinned at the image of hurling the twat as far as he could and decided that it was very important that he find out what was in the boy's twisted little mind. You never knew, it might give him the excuse he needed.

"I have no idea." Harry replied, watching the Malfoy with a curiosity equaling Ron's. "But it's creepy, isn't it? Seeing him smile like that. Have you ever seen him smile before?"

"Of course I've seen him smile…before…" Ron trailed off. No, come to think of it, he hadn't seen Malfoy smile _at all_ before. Smirk: yes; sneer: many a time; but _smile?_ Something was _definitely_ wrong. "I don't like this."

"Neither do I." Harry agreed.

"Do you think we should…erm…Wake him?" Ron asked, not exactly sure how he could describe the trance-like state that Malfoy appeared to be in.

Harry grinned, "Oh yes, lets."

With an air of importance that was ridiculous in the face of their mission, Ron and Harry approached the Malfoy from opposite sides. Both of them looked ridiculous, tiptoeing as if being quiet was a problem in the middle of a bubbling mass of teenagers. Oh well, Draco had chosen a shadowy little corner of the station to hide. Being quiet wasn't going to hurt. Even so, Ron fully expected Draco to 'awaken' when the pair were no less that a few feet away. Draco kept smiling.

Ron stopped, shooting Harry a questioning look. Harry shrugged, and moved forward a few more steps. Draco didn't even look up from the concrete. Slowly, prepared to jump away if this was some kind of trick, the two seventeen-year-olds settled themselves against the brick wall, standing on either side of the oblivious boy.

Harry was visibly trying to restrain laughter, but Ron looked positively distraught. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't moving an inch, beyond the hand that kept tracing some kind of shape on his chest and his eyelids that closed now and then in a sleepy-looking blink.

&

Back in his happy delusion, Draco was positively beaming at everyone, carrying on the exact same conversation that he always carried on with the Golden Trio. In this dream, that is. Something dark fluttered in the back of his mind; something about how pathetic it was that he kept coming back to this image, like a puppy that keeps jumping on the master who kicks him. What a disgusting sight, Draco Malfoy, lapping up the scraps of kindness he had to make up for himself. The Draco inside his mind shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts of the fluttering little thought. The chill that coursed through him was directly connected with the dark thing, like a thousand ice-cubes that melted in his bloodstream. This was different. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"What's wrong, Draco?" _Hermione asked, looking concerned. Ron and Harry also gave him curious looks and Draco realized that he had fallen into troubled silence, cutting off their previous conversation. _

"Nothing, nothing's wrong," Draco assured them, smiling to hide his confusion.

Hermione leaned forward, like she always did when she was about to say something, but, suddenly, her mouth wasn't moving. Draco looked around. The train wasn't moving either; Harry and Ron were both caught in poses of worry. That was when Draco saw the drip. The curtains, the tacky maroon curtains around the train window had begun to drip. Not with water, or any natural liquid, but it appeared that the curtains themselves were melting like wax, dripping onto the floor. Draco was trying to convince himself not to panic when it struck him that the rest of the room was melting too. Like a badly made candle, the room was folding in on itself, the expressions of his "friends" completely wiped away as the room melted and melted and the walls began to close in on him like a movie set in a studio.

Without warning the sides fell in, flooding Draco's reality with a pool of wax, but it wasn't hot, it was cold; a burning, scalding cold that licked at the bottom of his chin. Draco struggled to stay above the swirling mass of color, the cold nearly shocking his muscles into paralysis.

"How quaint, the ferret drowning in his own little stew. Ferret stew, how quaint…"A voice cracked through Draco's one-tracked quest for air.

Gasping, Draco searched the inky blackness of the world around him. The struggling boy was almost plunged under the waves when he caught sight of the man who appeared to be... well, sitting in the sky. Not that this place really had a sky, just an inky dark plane rising over the rainbow ocean, on and on as far as his eyes could see. But this man, that was the real curiosity. He seemed to be wearing some type of black cloak, shiny black gloves, and his hair… his hair was long enough to touch his waist as he sat, the pale threads resembling silver thread. He looked like a distance cousin of Lucius'.

"What are you doing, Draco?" The thing asked him, its voice low and drawling. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be on the train, with your friends? They'll worry about you, you know."

A flutter in the back of his mind seemed to tell him that they wouldn't, that they'd be glad to be rid of him, but Draco didn't want to hear it. "It-it-the-the train," he sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of the frigid color, "it melted!" He finished, attempting to tread in the swirling mass.

"Oh, poor Draco, let's help you shall we? Reach out your hand," the man reached down, and Draco gasped again, swallowing color. His hands were thin, fragile looking, long fingered to the point of ridiculousness. The way the man's nails curved under, it was almost like claws, reaching down to him, a soft voice crooning for him to reach out. "Come back to me, Draco…"

Draco reached up, paddling desperately with his other hand. The moment his fingers touched the pale one's skin he felt a shock run through his body. The man wasn't warm; he was cold. Frigid. Icy, even colder than the color he floundered in, and as he looked up into grey eyes they melted into red, slitting like a cat's, the nose melting back into the horrid things face. Draco screamed. Something new grabbed at him. Something kept him in the color. That something was warm.

&

" 

"What the fuck?" Harry yelped, watching in horror as Malfoy's placid features twisted into something that could only be horror. Frightened eyes darted back and forth, seeming to peer straight through Harry's living form, like you'd look through a ghost. Except, Draco was the one who looked like a specter, fighting against the wall as if something tried to hold him to it.

Harry was perfectly able to believe that this was some kind of twisted joke. After all, Malfoy was known for his superb acting skills, the cold little bastard. Even now, when in such obvious horror, Harry couldn't suppress a suspicious instinct. That is, until he screamed. That's when Harry realized that something was wrong. That wasn't a mocking scream, or a faked shriek of fear, that was a sound that spoke of things we would all like to keep beneath our beds, to hide in the shadows. There was nothing human in a sound like that; it was the same noise a wolf might make, backed into a corner.

"Hold him!" Harry yelled to Ron, grabbing at Malfoy's twisting frame. Harry grabbed his arms, pinning them to his sides as Ron tried to hold on to his waist. Between them, the thrashing was contained, and something resembling awareness crept back into Draco's eyes.

&

"No!" The figure above him hissed, and its delicately curved hands twisting into genuine claws, digging into Draco's palm.

Draco tried to cry out, but no sound escaped his mouth. He felt like he was being torn in two, with a paralyzing cold in front of him, and a white-hot pain clamped onto his waist, burning a hoop around his arms.

"Mine!" The creature shrieked, digging into Draco's arm with his other claw.

Let's go back… Draco shivered, feeling the familiar presence, the comfortable flutter that he recognized as honesty at the back of his mind. Yes,_ he thought back to the dark thing,_ let's go back_. Draco gasped again. The creature let go of him, shrieking with rage, and Draco was pulled back into the rainbow ocean, only this time, the cold only seemed a passing thought as more and more of his body was wrapped in searing heat. A painted wave quivered menacingly over his head, trembling in a suspended moment before crashing down on him. Draco barely felt the water fill in around him as he was pulled- down, down, down beneath the sea._

Yes, let's go back 

_&_

"Bloody hell!" Ron gasped, clutching at the body that he no longer identified as Malfoy's. The thing in his arms was just too much sinew and wiry fear to be considered human. That was why Ron almost dropped Draco when, quite suddenly, he stopped trying to twist out of his grasp.

Harry yelped, still bracing Draco's arms against his body, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance. By now their antics had drawn a few curious glances, but not much more than a person or two had asked what was going on. Because, honestly, it looked like the three were either feeling each other up or fighting two against one. Since very few Slytherins went home for Christmas, most people left them to it (assuming that it was the latter option). However, neither Harry nor Ron let out a peep when Malfoy's dazed grey eyes peered out at them. He caught Harry in his sights first.

"Potter?" He asked, sounding muffled.

"Malfoy?" Said Harry, not quite sure what you said to the enemy who "awoke" in your arms. Fortunately, Harry needn't have worried about conversation. Draco, always the drama king, did them all a favor and passed out cold.

Silence.

After a moment, Harry released Draco's arms. His mind reeled for a moment before falling back into its familiar pattern of act and react. "We should get him to the Hospital Wing…" said Harry, "Do you think you can carry him?"

"Yeah…" Ron was staring at Draco's face with a look akin to astonishment.

"Good, because I'm going to get Dumbledore. I'm sure that he'll want to know what's going on here." _And so do I_, he added silently, already off at a trot for Dumbledore.

"Yeah…" Was all that Ron said, mechanically sweeping Draco off his feet, starting out at a brisk pace towards the Hospital Wing. "Yeah…"

&

Harry was right, Dumbledore did want to know what was happening. However, as the old man took off for the Hospital Wing at a pace that would've tested Oliver Wood, Harry couldn't help but wonder if the Headmaster already knew.

"It was only a matter of time…" That's what Dumbledore had murmured to himself when Harry described the Malfoy's fit. Before Harry had an opportunity to ask questions they were dashing for the Hospital Wing, and Harry had to save his breath.

Dumbledore burst into the Hospital Wing, startling Madame Pomfrey, who was carefully measuring out a potion into a minutely marked vial. Ron Weasley sat beside a cot, filled with what appeared to be an ice sculpture.

"Has he regained consciousness?" Dumbledore asked, cutting off Pomfrey's scolding before she could start.

The medi-witch glared at him, herrumphing, but answered his question. "No, he hasn't, the poor boy's out cold," Pomfrey's eyes softened, "and I can't get anything out of Mr. Weasley here." She clucked a bit more.

"Do you have anything that can revive him?"

Pomfrey looked shocked. "Yes, Headmaster, but obviously, if the boy has passed out, he must be going through something very trying, and I wouldn't suggest that we-"

"Good, use it than, Poppy."

Her jaw dropped, and Dumbledore visibly softened.

"I'm sorry, Poppy, but we must have the boy conscious, this isn't a physical affliction."

"Albus, what in the devil's name is going on here?" She demanded.

"Please, Poppy," Albus smiled, "wake him up."

* * *


	2. Awakening

Title: The Dementor Effect 

Chapter: 2- Awakening

Disclaimer: Own nothin', makin' no money.

A/N: LOL, funny how I got almost the same response from all of you. "Interesting." LOL. Well, my pretties, it's about to get even more, "interesting." Thanks for all of your reviews!

Warnings: I forgot to mention- Slash in future chapters. If that's not your cuppa…sorry? What else… Um… Well, the entire idea is just nuts. So… sorry?

* * *

Draco gasped, his eyes snapping open. Something oddly thick was slithering down his throat, and it left a raw and tender feeling in its wake. His vision was fuzzy, shapes and colors blurring into each other, and Draco squeezed them tightly shut, refusing to look around. Someone laid a hand on his shoulder. Draco flinched, but the hand was warm. Not burning hot, but humanly warm, pulsing with life.

"Mr. Malfoy?" A calm voice invaded his thoughts. "Draco? Come on Draco, open your eyes."

Draco hesitated, but, finally, it was the hesitant touch of another living hand that made up his mind. Slowly opening his eyes, the first thing that jumped out at him was a violent red. It took the boy a few more seconds to identify the boy beside him with a name.

"Weasley?"

The redhead sucked in a breath, his fingers jumping away from Draco's shoulder. His pulse was practically thumping out of his skin. This dazzled, calm, _person_ in the cot couldn't be the thrashing wild thing he'd struggled to restrain. Malfoy couldn't be…just…_back_, after all of that.

Draco tried to connect that name with a set of memories, momentarily sliding past the familiar feelings of condescension and jealousy. There was something not right about this room, wasn't there someone else? "Where's Potter?"

"Me? Oh-um… here?" Harry moved into Draco's line of vision. His face was crimson.

"Do you feel alright, Mr. Malfoy?" Pomfrey interrupted, looking concerned.

Draco, honestly, wasn't very sure about how he was feeling. He chose to ignore her question. Instead, he centered his full attention on the old man standing before him. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, he identified. For some reason unknown, he immediately connected the figure with the calm voice that had called him back to reality.

"Sir," he said dazedly, nodding with respect. Images swam in front of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. Colors twirled beneath his eyelids, but they didn't rise to claim him. Somehow, Draco knew that he was safe. For now. It occurred to him that something very wrong was going on. What happened to the ocean? Did this all really start with that stupid daydream? Draco shuddered. No, not a daydream. It was much, much too real to be only that. Why was Potter here? Wasn't Potter the one who'd woken him up? Why was Weasley here? He was in the Hospital Wing, right? How did he get here? What was wrong with him? Why was the Headmaster here? What had awoken him? Who was the creature? What was going on?

Draco opened his mouth, fully prepared to bombard his audience with peels of inquiries, but Dumbledore beat him to the mark.

"Can you remember anything, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, barely restrained urgency shining behind his half-moon glasses.

He gazed solemnly at the Headmaster before answering. "Yes."

"How much?"

"…Everything."

"Do know what's happening?"

"I assume that you do?"

"I do."

"…Well?" Draco scowled, fisting his sheets in frustration, "What is it? What the fuck is going on here!"

Pomfrey gasped. Dumbledore winced. Harry blushed more deeply. Weasley grinned.

"Language, Mr. Malfoy, all will be explained in due time."

"Due time? What kind of-"

"Do you hurt, physically, at all, Mr. Malfoy?"

"…No."

"Good, do you think that you can keep awake?"

"Of course!"

"Very good. In that case, I must regretfully ask this room to clear. I have pressing matters to discuss with Mr. Malfoy."

The room was still for moment, and it took a few more moments for the Headmaster's order to sink in. When it did, the Hospital Wing cleared as quickly as one might think molasses does from a jar. When, finally, the double doors had swung shut behind Weasley and Potter, and a grumbling Pomfrey had retreated to her study, Dumbledore took out his wand and cast a powerful privacy spell on the room. Draco shifted nervously. Whatever this was, it had to be big. Draco was pretty sure that that wasn't a good thing.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you," Dumbledore settled into the chair that Weasley had vacated. "I've made what I think to be a fairly accurate assumption. I'm not going to tell you what that is, because I wouldn't want you to do any undo panicking. Now, if you would be so kind, would you please tell me what happened this afternoon?"

Draco tried desperately to train his features into his usual mask of ice, but his body wouldn't comply. He felt uneasy, humiliated, and shy all at once, and he didn't like it one bit. He didn't know if he should be recounting such an embarrassing episode to Dumbledore, of all people, and he wasn't sure that if he did tell Dumbledore, that the old man would know what to do. Wasn't this the man who'd managed to drag a formerly great school's name through the political mud? Wasn't "Dumbledore" synonymous with, "muggle lover?" How could he, son of Lucius Malfoy, trust a man who was not-so subtly undermining everything the Malfoys stood for and believed in, everything he was taught was right? Did it really matter anymore? Draco repressed a groan, running a hand roughly through his hair. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore's voice dripped with patience, "Draco, do you want to tell me?"

"No." Draco snapped, glaring at the man. Dumbledore only smiled. That's what did it. Draco melted, sighing deeply. "But I will."

"I won't interrupt you."

"Whatever," Draco sighed again, and prepared himself for a recount of this afternoon's adventures, pointedly excluding his conversations with the Golden Trio, and the sweater on Christmas morning.

* * *

"Well, Mr.Malfoy, that is intriguing…" Dumbledore spoke with a tone of delicacy, as if he expected that one wrong tip in infliction could send the distraught teenager into another fit. Hell, for all Draco knew, that could be true.

"So do you know what's wrong with me?" He asked impatiently.

"Yes."

"…Well?"

"You have an overactive imagination, Mr. Malfoy."

"…Excuse me?" Draco's voice was laced with ice, unknowingly mimicking a tone that his father favored when speaking with those he considered insulting or dangerous.

"You have a wildly overactive imagination," Dumbledore looked uncommonly solemn. "I'm afraid that is truly your downfall."

"What in the name of-"

"Have you ever heard of something called the Dementor Effect?"

Draco's jaw worked, but no sound was forthcoming. What was this man **_on_**? "N-no, but what does that-"

"About one hundred years ago a man named Jerahd Syrahk was lost in the South American Amazon. Fifteen years later, his body was found in an exquisitely built shelter in the canopy. There wasn't a mark on him. After a muggle autopsy it was determined that some kind of slow-acting poison had paralyzed him, but he'd actually died of starvation. The magical community acknowledged it as a dementor attack. Jerahd exhibited the same symptoms as some one who'd been subjected to the kiss. This was an important discovery, for, until then, it was believed that dementors only existed on the European continent. Another wizard, by the name of William Betters, headed a campaign into the Amazon jungle to find the dementors he believed to be residing there. They never found any dementors, but there was a constant presence of other dark creatures and the stink of ancient blood magic. Six months after he landed in South America, Mr. William Betters returned to Britain. Seventeen out of his crew of seventy-five returned in a conscience state. William himself suffered from chronic fits and reoccurring delusions. When he was asked to describe these episodes, all he would say is that his memories had become nightmares. His daydreams had become cages, and his happiness had slowly and steadily been creeping in on him. William Betters fell into catatonia three months later. The so-called Amazon Dementors were never found. Does any of this sound familiar, Draco?"

Draco was silent, staring at his hands. Thoughts raced through his mind so quickly he couldn't differentiate one idea from another speeding bullet of information. "What are you saying, sir?" Draco almost jumped at the sound of his own voice. It was calm, icy, perfectly composed. Damn his training. For the first time in his life, he wished he could sound shocked, terrified, or even helpless if that's what it meant to feel.

"I'm saying, Mr. Malfoy, that there is an extremely rare, extremely picky, virus out there that feeds on persons in magical community who have a constant, or almost constant, exposure to the dark arts. Dark magic leaves a residue on one's psyche, building up until a cloud of shadow waits in one's mind, feeding on all your happy thoughts and feelings until there's nothing left but that cloud."

"What about Potter? Shouldn't he be dead by now?"

Dumbledore chuckled without humor. "I'm afraid that this virus is extremely choosy when it comes to its victims. An overly active imagination, Mr. Malfoy, that's why it effects you. The Dementor Effect latches onto people who have a psychological addiction to happiness, these are usually people who have very little of the real stuff. They have make up their good things, usually in the form of daydreams or art. Can you imagine that, Draco? What a feast a dementor would have on a psyche like that? A never-ending supply of bright emotion, constantly being created to replace reality. Mr. Potter isn't effected because, quite literally, he has friends. He has a constant input of good will, while you have just the opposite: a constant input of malevolence and an output of artificial bliss. Almost poetic, isn't it?"

"No," Said Draco immediately. There was nothing beautiful or poetic about this. "It sounds positively horrible, Headmaster, but how does that explain these delusions or…'fits'? Shouldn't daydreams and a hungry cloud of dementor balance eachother out?"

"Ah, yes, they should, in theory. But the truth is, no one can be satisfied with pretend. It's like psychological junk food. It'll take the edge of your hunger, but it won't make you stronger. And when the thin layer of contentment is ripped, the cloud comes flooding through. Bad memories…Moments of despair…Even a more complicated image can be let in when these lapses occur. Eventually, a person's mind becomes 'water-logged' and the dark starts eating at the essence of one's soul. By that time, that person's as good as dead. It's the point of no return, and the eventual result is an empty bag of flesh, blood, and bones devoid of a soul."

Draco grimaced, closing his eyes, shaking his head in denial. No. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. Nothing that wrong could happen to him. He wasn't even sad, he had plenty of happiness in his life! Dumbledore was mad, that was the only explanation…he was mad…

"No!" Draco denied, shaking his head so hard he could almost hear his brain squishing against the sides of his skull. "No, it's not true. You're wrong, this isn't happening. You're wrong! You're wrong!"

"Mr. Malfoy, it can be cured, I didn't mean to frighten you, I didn't think you'd want to soften the truth. There are ways-"

"I don't care!" Draco shouted, his cool voice finally shattering, and his eyes glassing over with unshed tears. "I don't care! It doesn't matter! You're wrong!"

"Draco-"

"Get out!"

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Get out! Get out! Get out!" His voice broke on the last word, and he lowered his head to his hands, sobbing. "Get out…" he choked out weakly.

Albus Dumbledore looked on with sympathy, but he didn't move to touch the boy. Quietly, without ceremony, he rose from his seat.

"My door is open, it's your move. The password is Sarsaparilla…" Dumbledore paused by the door to the hospital wing. "Don't hesitate. We don't have the time."

Draco didn't respond. He couldn't respond. Nothing was as it should be. Nothing, nothing, nothing….

* * *


	3. SideKick Complex

Title: The Dementor Effect

Chapter: 3- Side-Kick Complex

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The "Dementor Affect" is completely fictional, and the idea belongs to me, the writer.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I love feedback! I know the idea's pretty weird, but I'm trying to make it interesting. Sorry about not updating for so long,I've been out of stateduring the summer and my computer access was limited to none. So, sorry, and i hope that I can be a little more prompt now that I;m back crosses fingers Thanks for sticking with me! I would appreciate any comments you have! And, er… well, I didn't really like the way I wrote this chapter, so if anyone has constructive thoughts, editing, criticism, it would be muchly appreciated.

Warnings: Gonna be slashed. Don't like, don't read.

* * *

Draco was released from the Hospital Wing one day later, much to Pomfrey's dismay. But even she had to admit that there wasn't anything _physically_ the matter with him. Draco, on the other hand, was not so easy to appease. With recently acquired information weighing heavily on his mind, it was hard for Draco to tolerate the giddiness of the holiday season. 

"Hey Draco, would you care to join us here on earth?" Pansy's sarcastic twitter drew him out of his reverie.

His head jerked around to stare at her. "Shut up," He hissed; ignoring the smug and worried glances his peers were shooting him. Everything seemed kind of faded. Corners rounded and blurred. Colors looked watered down. Everything just seemed a little…Hazy. Draco didn't notice where his feet were taking him, but he couldn't have really cared.

* * *

Slytherins and Gryffindors alike had noticed a profound change in Malfoy. It was frightening, how he hadn't smirked once all day, how he'd forgotten to insult Weasley at lunch, and how he blatantly ignored any attempts at conversation. It was like the flame inside Draco had just guttered out, and there was nothing left to shine through. 

"Harry," Ron poked at his best friend with his wand, distracted from his charms homework. The trio had decided to do their work outside; taking periodic breaks for snowball fights.

"Hey!" Harry yelped, pushing the length of wood away form his ribs, "Watch that thing! I haven't forgotten the slug incident, have you?"

Ron glared. "Shut up for a minute, all right?"

Harry sighed.

"Look over there," Ron jerked his head towards the group of Slytherins at the other end of the grounds. "Anything look familiar?"

Harry craned his neck to look around the redhead. He searched for something that looked out of place, but… "Ron, what're you smoking? They look like Slytherins."

Ron sighed irritably. "Look at Malfoy, you twit. Doesn't he seem kind of dazed? You know, like on Monday?"

Harry rolled his eyes and searched the group. "Are you delusional? Malfoy's not over there."

"What?" Ron demanded, and he too scanned the grounds for the familiar glint of over-gelled hair. It wasn't there. He wasn't there. "He was right there a second ago! Where the hell did he go?"

"Chill out, would you?" Harry gave him a quizzical look, "He probably just skipped off to the loo, don't have a stroke."

Ron ignored him. With a snap in his step and a worried expression, Ron rushed back to the castle; casting searching looks back and forth across the grounds as he ran. No Malfoy. He needed to know where the slimy git had run off to. Something odd was happening to Malfoy, and Ron wasn't sure what it was, but he was awfully damn sure that the boy shouldn't be left alone. And, as horrifying as it was, he felt a certain…well…_responsibility_ for Draco. It sickened him, but there it was. Maybe Harry's, "Saving people thing," was rubbing off. Could he have a side-kick complex?

* * *

Draco couldn't tell you how he'd come to be smiling at the ground. He was just sitting there one minute, watching the colors fade in and out and listening to the odd sounds inside his head fluctuate from loud to softer to splitting his skull in twain. The next thing he knew, he was grinning at the tiled floor for no apparent reason, and something…odd…was down there. Draco frowned, almost pouting, as he watched a spot in the tile began to waver, like a puddle… 

Curiously, Draco reached down, dipping his fingers into what had appeared to be a tile floor. The sound in his mind intensified, until, in a moment, he could identify the roaring as the distant scream of waves that seemed to be growing closer and louder by the second. Panicking, Draco tried to draw his hand out of the tile, but he kept sinking. His hand was pulled downward by something other than gravity, and the puddle-like substance wrapped cold tendrils around his wrist- beginning to creep, vine-like, to his elbow. And then, just like that, Draco wasn't sitting in the hallway anymore. He was, in fact, very far away from the hallway. He was sitting at his usual place in the Great Hall.

His friends twittered around him, but the breakfast on his plate was rapidly growing cold. Morning sunlight streamed through the faux ceiling, and Draco couldn't help but resent the golden rays, even if he wasn't sure why.

A shriek cut through the buzz of the Hogwarts morning, and a great flock of post owls came swooping into the hall. As a collective sigh rushed through the crowd, Draco watched a pair of birds, large screech owls, who straggled behind the others. Packages and letters in various shapes, colors and weights dropped from their carriers. Draco's breath caught in his throat. That pair of owls, the lazy ones, had swooped low just a second after the others, drawing enough attention to the Slytherin table to make a scene.

One right after the other, they dropped their letters. Two black envelopes, "Plunk, plunk," onto Draco's frigid breakfast. The Hall held its breath. No one had ever gotten two at once before.

"Draco…" said Goyle uncertainly. He lifted a hand, barely touching Draco's shoulder.

The pale boy flinched away, gracing the lumbering oaf with a glare so cold it would've sent frost shooting along a lesser boy's skin. "Don't touch me," he said calmly, refusing to meet the other boy's eyes. Refusing to meet anyone's' eyes. He knew what he'd find there, and he didn't need their pity. He didn't need their **fucking** pity…

"Excuse me." Draco snatched up the envelopes. There was no need to open them; he knew what they said. Draco stepped away from the table.

Lucius was dead. Narcissa was dead. How or why didn't really matter- his father had taught him that. What mattered now were the consequences. He was now in control of the Malfoy estates. He was now the sole survivor of his blood. There were expectations that carried beyond his father's cold grave. Orphan… the word rang true.

A sound began to pulse in his mind, and he rubbed at his temples, walking calmly away from the whispering Great Hall, but the sound wouldn't quiet, it only got louder. It built and built until the waves seemed to be crashing against the insides of his skull A laugh broke through the roar- a cruel, crackling thing, and with it came the faint imprint of a person. A lanky, pale monster with twisted claws and eyes that burned like fire. It terrified him. But, just as Draco was beginning to think he'd go mad with the cacophony and fear, something different…something like the crystal chiming of bells or the simple perfection of silence was shredding at the roar in his mind. The form hissed, and his scarlet eyes smoldered as they narrowed. Claws reached out for him…

"Malfoy? Uh…Malfoy?"

Draco gasped and clutched the stone wall behind him, digging his fingers into the comforting roughness of grout. His eyes were bleary; all he could see was a vague red cloud floating in front of his face. Slowly, definition returned to his world, and he dubiously studied his 'rescuer'.

"Weasley," Draco tried to sneer, but the best he could do was a pathetic twitching of his lips. He knew he looked ridiculous, and it made him angry. "What do you want?" Draco snapped. He couldn't deal with this right now. He'd deal with Weasley when the world stopped crumbling and solid things stopped melting. Like the floor. Draco glanced at the black and white tile. He resisted the urge to gulp.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ron could've smacked himself. He had the nastiest habit of saying precisely what he was thinking, at precisely the moment he was thinking it. Such a process left little room for consideration or editing. How could he un-dig this one? (_Why do you want to?_ Nagged a voice within his mind).

"I mean-uh-well…" _Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush, don'tblushdon'tblushdon'tblush_, Ron though desperately as pink seeped through his ears. Why was he explaining himself anyway? He wasn't the one having strokes against castle walls! He was the normal one here! That's right! He shouldn't even need to apologize! Besides, it was Malfoy, why did he give a fuck? He didn't! He didn't give a fuck! That's right! _Stop blushing, damn it!_

"There's nothing wrong with me, Weasel. I'm a Malfoy. I'm perfect." Draco managed the sneer this time. He might almost admit to being relieved. He needed his sneer right now. He really, _really_, needed his sneer right now. He needed time to sort things out. He needed… he needed time to adjust. Adjust to fact that Dumbledore was right. Damn it.

Ron scoffed. "Well excuse me for taking up precious minion space on YOUR PLANET." Ron smiled to himself- that was pretty good for a spur of the moment thing comeback.

Draco smirked. "Thanks a million, Weasel."

Ron blushed…harder.

"Now, as much as I love these little chats we have, I really must be going." Draco stood up…for about three seconds before his quaking limbs gave out and he had to catch himself against the wall. Actually, he still might've had a brief introduction with the ground if it hadn't been for the hands that jumped out to grab him. Draco glared at the hands gripped beneath his shoulders.

"Do you need to go to Pomfrey's again, Malfoy?" Ron tried to stop himself from being worried. He tried to be excited. He really did! Malfoy had trouble standing! Yay! Good thing! Yay! Yay! Yay…

"Don't be such a Gryffindor," he snapped without thinking, and tried to remind himself that speaking without thinking was a bad thing. Weasley's hands must've been cutting off the circulation to his brain. "I'm perfect, Weasley, and if you'd kindly stop bruising me…" Draco looked pointedly at Ron's hands. _Huh. Do you think he'll explode if he blushes much harder? Could be interesting…_ _NO! Dumbledore, cure, and then deal with the Weasley. Order of operations here- Stay focused!_

"Whatever," Ron muttered, dropping Draco's shoulders. He tried not to notice when Draco had to catch himself on the wall again. His side-kick complex **itched**.

"So…"Draco waited, and then sighed. "Get out of here! Go do whatever it is you do with your spare time! Bugger the mudblood or something-"

"Don't call her that!" Ron shouted, hands clenching into fists. He took it back. His side-kick complex was screwed. Malfoy didn't need help. His mouth was just fine.

"Whatever, just get out of my sight, you're beginning to hurt my eyes," Draco wasn't quite sure if he could afford to waste so much time on this banter. He really needed to see Dumbledore.

"You are such a bastard, Malfoy," Ron growled. And then, he almost jumped out of his socks when Draco growled back.

"Fuck off!" He insisted. Damn Weasel with his damn perception and bloody hitting what Draco hated to fucking admit was a goddamn nerve. Fuck. Just for good measure.

"With pleasure!" Ron stormed away, thoughts like, "_Why did I even try?"_ And, "_God damn Malfoy!"_ Flitting through his mind.

As Draco watched the redhead storm away, he drew a shaky breath. _Thank you, dear gods, for making him go away!_ His hands slipped on the wall, but he managed to stay on his feet. Slowly, but steadily, Draco made his way to the headmaster's office. He had to crawl about a quarter of the way, but he was eventually steady enough to walk. By the time he was whispering the password at the stoic gargoyle, he no longer needed assistance. He no longer felt weak. Maybe a little nauseous, but no where near as dizzy as last time. He felt stupid. Which was infinitely worse.

* * *

Dumbledore didn't look surprised to see him. Draco didn't look happy to be there. 

"What do I do?" Draco whispered. His pride wouldn't allow him to stare at the floor. He'd meet the old man's eyes, god damn it. He'd do it if it killed him. Upon later reflection, Draco considered the fact that it might have.

"You cooperate," Dumbledore replied, and he motioned for Draco to take a seat.

Draco sunk into the padded green armchair uncomfortably. This scene felt familiar, and Draco tried to block out the last meeting he'd had in this office. It had a lot to do with the two black letters that still lay unopened in his wardrobe.

"Fine-What do _we_ do?"

"We make you happy, Draco," Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "We just have to make you happy."

"Easy as that, huh?"

"Yes."

Draco snorted.

* * *


End file.
